


tell me how good it feels (to be needed)

by Idday



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Body Worship, Dom/sub, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, gentle domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Noah knows what this is: Jack faces pressure, and sometimes he doesn’t want to make the decisions. Jack faces comparisons, and sometimes he wants to hear that he’s good. Jack has a hard career, and sometimes he wants things to be easy. Jack’s good at following directions. Noah’s good at giving them.Noah loves him, and he wants Jack to be happy. He wants to make Jack happy.Everything else stems from that.





	tell me how good it feels (to be needed)

**Author's Note:**

> Tagging info in the endnotes for those sensitive to spoilers.

It starts small. 

It starts in Greece. 

It starts because they’re sitting oceanside and Jack can’t decide what to drink. Noah’s hot and sweaty and, most importantly, not drunk. Jack keeps waffling between options.  

When the waiter comes back, Noah shoves the menus at him and orders two beers. When the waiter walks away, Noah glances over. He’s expecting Jack to argue with him, call the waiter back, order his own drink. He doesn’t.   

And that’s how it starts. 

… 

Or maybe, it starts before that. Maybe it starts when Jack texts him during the season, says his house is a wreck. Noah tells him to hire a cleaning service, and he does.  

Noah recommends a song that Jack adds to his warm-up mix.  

Jack asks him what suit to wear for a photo shoot, and Noah tells him the blue always looks best with his eyes. Two months later, Jack’s wearing the blue suit in a photo spread.  

So maybe that’s where it starts. 

… 

But Noah notices in Greece. The second night, they’re out for dinner, and Jack wanders off just as the waiter approaches their table. “I have to use the bathroom,” he says, and slides his menu into Noah’s lap. “Hanny, you can order for me.” 

Noah knows what’s on his meal plan, broadly enough. He knows what Jack likes. He knows what he ate for lunch, that he won’t want fish again. It’s easy enough to pick something that he knows Jack will eat.  

When Jack bites into the lamb, makes a small sound of pleasure, Noah smiles. “Thanks, Hanny,” he says. “It’s good.” 

… 

In April, Jack had sent him a Zillow listing—a short term rental for the summer on the Massachusetts coast. It’s a nice place. Expensive. But Jack’s good for it, because when Jack had asked him about the contract last year, Noah had told him— _you’re worth it. Take the money._  

When Jack asks about the house, he says— _looks nice. You should do it._  

At the time, Noah was Calgary. Now he’s not, and Jack has a summer house on the beach because Noah told him to rent it. Noah wasn’t expecting to be invited to spend the summer there with him, but he’s not surprised when he is.  

… 

The third night in Greece, they’re at a club where only a few other people speak English. It’s late. Zach asks if they want another drink, and Jack doesn’t even answer—turns to Noah expectantly.  

Noah watches his face, understanding dawning. “Sure,” he says, and then Jack nods, too, and they both have another drink. 

The next night is a different club, a different crowd. Zach asks if they want another drink, and Jack looks to Noah for an answer. Just to see, mostly, Noah says, “no, thanks. Might head to bed.” 

When he stands, Jack does, too. They walk back together, part ways at their rooms. Noah thinks about it—about Jack waiting for his answer—as he falls asleep.  

… 

They attend game seven together, salt in the wound. They sit halfway up the lower bowl, hats pulled over their faces. They’re rooting for Boston, in a casual sort of way.  

By the time the game’s over, they’re two of the few left in their seats. Jack’s leant over, elbows on knees, drinking it in. He’s never had a taste.  

Noah has now, and that might be worse.  

O’Reilly lifts the Cup. Noah doesn’t know him—Jack does, of course. Their relationship is. Not contentious, but complicated. Jack turns his face a few degrees towards Noah. “I don’t know what to do,” he says. 

“Say something nice,” Noah tells him. It’s supposed to be a question, but it stings, watching it, and so it doesn’t sound like a question, comes out like an order instead. Jack pulls out his phone, types something up, shows Noah the post. He does it like he cares what Noah thinks—like it’s not a formality that Noah should approve what he posts. He nods, and Jack clicks send.    

… 

It’s the little things. Noah keeps trying, learning, pushing.  

They’re on the same summer league team. They train together, and they live together. Noah learns that Jack likes simple choices from him. That Jack responds best to direct statements. That when Jack has a beautiful game and Noah drives them home afterwards, he likes to hear Noah say, “you were so good tonight, Jack.”  

Jack doesn’t say any of it out loud. He doesn’t ask for Noah to decide what they eat for lunch, or thank him for choosing what they watch on Netflix. But it’s Jack. If he didn’t want to do it, he wouldn’t. If he didn’t want to listen to Noah, he’d tell him so.  

If he didn’t like Noah telling him when he’s done well, he wouldn’t blush at the words.     

They don’t talk about it. Why would they? Noah doesn’t ask him to do anything he wouldn’t want to, anyway. It’s not about that.  

… 

It’s northwest of platonic, but they always have been. Jack has a hard day that culminates in a bad turnover and an overtime loss. He’s upset, mostly with himself.  

Noah knows this because Noah knows Jack.  

When they get home, Noah sits on the couch and says, “come here.” Jack does, leans against him as they watch a baking show that Noah’s sister said he should watch. Noah keeps his arm over Jack’s shoulders, tucking him against his chest. He doesn’t settle. 

After the first episode, Noah says, “lay down.” Jack grumbles, and puts his head in Noah’s lap.  

The contestants are making meringue. Noah pushes his hand through Jack’s hair, methodically, until Jack relaxes against him. Noah watches him watching TV, the way his face smooths out. His hair is tangled from using rink shampoo, the curls still tight and wet. It’s going to be a mess tomorrow. Noah cards his hand through regardless, careful never to pull. They don’t talk again. When the episode is over, Noah says, “bedtime,” and Jack goes to bed.  

… 

Some people think that Jack is complicated. He's not, really—in the ways that matter, he's simple and straightforward and single-minded. All that Noah needs to know is that Jack cares, deeply, about most things.   

He cares about being the best, about making his family proud, about proving his city wrong. He cares about winning, and cares about losing. He cares about his teammates, about his friends, about his fans.  

He cares about making Noah happy.  

Everything else stems from that. 

… 

Jack hits a new max in June, deadlifting a truly obscene amount. Noah films it for snapchat, and then watches the video back. He wonders if it’s too obvious, the way the camera lingers on his ass, the flexing of his legs. In the background, Noah’s own voice is low and encouraging. But then, it’s a workout video, so maybe it’s unavoidable. Noah posts it anyway.  

Jack’s sweating and ecstatic. They’re in the gym, so Noah gets away with a hand on his shoulder. He drags his thumb across the hollow of Jack’s collarbone on the way.  

“You’re fucking amazing,” he says, firmly. He watches Jack’s face, the way he flushes and blooms under it. He watches Jack accept it. Then—only then—does he take his hand away.    

… 

Noah thinks about kissing him. He’s never thought about it before, but he thinks about it now—imagines it so vividly that sometimes it takes him by surprise when he remembers that it hasn’t actually happened.  

It always goes the same way, in his head: Jack tips his head back, throat bared. His face is open, his mouth is soft. He keeps his eyes closed. 

Noah stops him on the way to the gym, one morning. He lets him go first so that when he says, “Jack,” Noah’s still halfway up the staircase.   

Jack stops, turns. Waits for him—for whatever he was going to say. Noah pauses, on the next-to-last step.  

“Come here,” he says, and Jack crosses to him, no hesitation. Waits again. Like this, a step up, Noah’s taller by a head. He thinks about it.  

If it were anyone but Jack, he would say— _I want to kiss you._ Or,  _I’m thinking about kissing you._ Or he would just do it, maybe, reach out for them.  

Jack like simple questions from him, yes or no. It feels important to ask first, before eroding this boundary. Noah thinks it carefully before he says it: “Can I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” Jack says immediately. He doesn’t move. He waits for Noah to pick how it happens.   

Noah reaches for him, slowly, deliberately. He slides his palms to the nape of Jack’s neck, threading his fingers through the mess of his curls. Tips Jack’s head back, baring his pale neck. Noah cradles his skull, tender with his neck as a newborn’s, smooths his thumbs up from Jack’s chin until they rest in the soft hollows of his jaw. Jack turns his face up like a sunflower seeking Noah’s light. It’s just how Noah pictured it.  

When he leans in, finally, Jack opens to him, pliant and easy. It’s so much more than Noah imagined. Jack lets him kiss for eons.  

“Thank you,” Noah tells him, when he pulls back. “That was good, Jack.” Jack’s flushed. He doesn’t pull his face from Noah’s hands.  

And that’s how it continues.  

… 

They kiss again, the next day. Nothing more. Noah tells him, “go to bed,” because Jack’s playing video games on the couch and his eyes are drooping and he never gets enough sleep.  

Jack says, “it’s 9:30,” but he stands up anyway and goes up to brush his teeth. Noah catches him on the way out of the bathroom and says, “will you sleep in my room?” 

“Yes,” Jack says, and he’s already in Noah’s bed by the time Noah gets ready and crosses the room. Jack’s eyes are closed. Noah reaches out and touches his face, thumbing along his cheekbone. He thinks about the butterfly kisses his sister used to give, and brushes the pad of his finger across Jack’s eyelashes where they’re fanned against his cheek.  

Jack’s still awake, breathing unsteadily. Noah asks, “what are you thinking about?” 

Jack breathes, in, out. “I’m thinking about kissing you,” he says, and doesn’t open his eyes.  

Noah cups his face. “Jack,” he says, and waits until Jack flutters his eyes open, tilts his head over. Then Noah kisses him again, the same way, long and deep. Jack opens for him again, plush and wet.  

In the morning, Noah wakes because Jack’s already up, squirming around on the mattress. It’s too early. “Hold still,” Noah tells him, and throws his arm over Jack’s waist. He settles then, and when Noah opens his eyes for good an hour later, Jack’s still laying like that, quiet under Noah’s arm, placid. 

... 

Noah googles some shit, and then Noah goes for a long run. He does his best thinking like that.  

He’s not confused. He’s not working backwards. He knows what this is: Jack faces pressure, and sometimes he doesn’t want to make the decisions. Jack faces comparisons, and sometimes he wants to hear that he’s good. Jack has a hard career, and sometimes he wants things to be easy. Jack’s good at following directions. Noah’s good at giving them.  

Most of what he read doesn’t really apply. Jack’s not a child, and he doesn’t need to be disciplined, and Noah is uninterested in that, anyway. Jack doesn’t want to be hurt, and that’s the last thing that Noah wants to do.   

Noah loves him, and he wants Jack to be happy. He wants to make Jack happy.  

Everything else stems from that. 

Noah comes home, and Jack’s out on the beach. Noah puts his shirt in the hamper and changes into swim trunks and chugs a bottle of water. Then he goes outside and asks Jack, “what if I told you to do something that you don’t want to?” 

“You won’t,” Jack says easily. 

“But what if?” 

Jack shrugs. “Then I won’t do it. It’s not that hard to say no.” 

Noah hums. It’s high noon, so he says, “put some sunscreen on,” and Jack does. 

And that’s how it is.  

... 

Somehow, conversely, the more that Noah controls, the more power Jack has. Noah’s aware—always, intimately aware—that this happens because Jack lets it. He listens to Noah, lets Noah choose, because for whatever reason, he’s decided to listen and to let Noah choose. Noah doesn’t have to understand it to relish it. Cherish it.  

… 

They watch the finale of the baking show. Jack has his head in Noah’s lap more often, now. Noah says, “getting long,” when it’s a commercial break. He smooths a spiral of Jack’s hair in between his fingers, then watches it spring back into place. 

He’s always careful about what he says. If he said— _you need a haircut,_ Jack would get one. So he says, “are you thinking about getting a haircut?” 

“Soon,” Jack says. His voice is soft, which is how Noah knows that he’s happy. “Before the season. Probably not now.” 

After a beat, he says, “will you remind me?” 

“Yes,” Noah says, and schedules it into his mental calendar. August: tell Jack to get a haircut.  

The show ends. Jack’s squirming, minutely, which means something’s on his mind.  

“What are you thinking about?” Noah asks him.  

Jack breathes, in, out. Again. Something that he needs a moment for. Finally, he says, “I’m thinking about sucking you off.” 

Noah carefully makes sure that his hand doesn’t still in Jack’s hair. No indication that he’s surprised. He asks, “would you like to suck my cock?” Jack thinking about it doesn’t mean that he wants it, necessarily.  

“Yes,” Jack says immediately.  

He likes yes or no questions. The possibilities are endless, so Noah cuts them down to two, says, “would you like to be on your knees?” 

“Yes,” he says, and so Noah puts a pillow down for him. He climbs down from the couch gracelessly.  

“Have you done this before?” Noah asks him.  

“Yes,” Jack says. Noah doesn’t ask him who with. It doesn’t matter. He cups Jack’s face in one hand, feels the way he lists into it.  

“You’re so beautiful,” Noah says. Jack makes a face.  

“Jack,” Noah says, steadily. Waits for Jack to look up, meet his gaze. He doesn’t lie to Jack. He has a good face, an interesting face, expressive and strong and soft in turns. Noah likes his face. He likes his body—the way it looks when he’s well fed and lifting hard like he is now. The way it looks wasted from a season like it did in Greece. Noah likes all of it, and maybe it’s tied to how fond he is of Jack, the ways he knows him. The ways he’s watched Jack grow over the years. Maybe he’d like him regardless, if they met last month. Maybe it doesn’t matter.  

“You’re so beautiful,” he says again, the same tone of voice. He watches Jack’s face carefully. He doesn’t flinch away from it the same way this time. His eyebrow is arched a little, dubious, but he doesn’t break Noah’s gaze. It’s an improvement.  

Noah keeps a hand on Jack’s face, uses his other hand to pull his own sweatpants down, hitching his hips up. Jack’s gaze drops. He waits for Noah to pull him in.  

His mouth is soft and skillful. Noah doesn’t tell him how to do it, doesn’t give him any rules. Jack wants to suck his cock, Noah will let him do it however he wants. It’s about making Jack happy. Getting off is just a bonus.  

Jack doesn’t use his hands, keeps the suction soft, mouth shallow and warm. Noah keeps a hand on his face, thumb stroking. He tells Jack when he’s about to come, says, “do you want me to come in your mouth?” 

Jack pulls back long enough to say, “yes,” and so Noah does.  

Jack tilts his head onto Noah’s thigh, after, hands on his own knees. Stays still. Noah thinks about it carefully, before he says, “would you like to come?” Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe that’s not what this is about.  

Jack says, “yes,” and doesn’t move.  

Noah hasn’t been with another man before, but Jack doesn’t make him nervous. He says, “would you like me to get you off?” 

Jack says, “yes,” again, so Noah helps him into his lap and keeps a hand on the back of his neck, pressing Jack’s face into his throat, and he strokes him off.  

... 

They’re in the gym—Jack's benching more than Noah. Noah offers to spot, and Jack jokes, “can you?” 

“Don’t you trust me?” Noah asks, and regrets it in the next second.  

Jack’s brow wrinkles. “How can you ask that,” he says, not a question. The trainer spots while Noah finishes abs.  

They drove together—Noah knows that Jack won’t uber home without him, no matter how badly he fucked up. He takes a long shower, thinking about what to say.  

Jack’s waiting for him, sitting quietly on a bench next to Noah’s locker.  

“Jack,” Noah says, and waits until Jack looks up at him, meets his eyes. It takes a moment, but Noah waits. “I’d like to apologize,” he says. Jack waits him out. Noah rehearsed the whole thing while he was rinsing off. It still doesn’t come out correctly. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I'm sorry. I know you trust me, I know that... It’s the most important thing to me that you do. That I've earned that. And I hope that...” Jack’s face doesn’t change except where it does, softens around the edges. “I hope that I haven’t lost that,” Noah finishes. 

Jack doesn’t look away. Noah doesn’t ask him if it’s enough, because Jack likes yes or no questions. He says, “can you forgive me?” 

“Yes,” Jack says.  

… 

They go to lunch. Jack orders for himself. He’s texting a prospect—one of his new draft picks. Noah tells him to get dessert, so they stay for cake.  

“You’re a good captain,” Noah tells him. Jack smiles around a forkful of chocolate. 

… 

There’s a development camp that they agree to staff—elementary school kids, mostly. After, Noah tells him to invite all the older players back to theirs for a barbecue, and so Jack does.  

It’s a good night. The Boston guys are cliquey, all friends of friends who train and play together. Once everyone leaves, Noah parks himself on a deck chair, sheltered from neighbors by the house.  

“Come here,” he says, and Jack brings his half-full beer. Noah arranges Jack across his lap. He takes the beer from Jack’s hands and puts it against Jack’s lips. “Let me,” he says, and Jack lets him.  

“You were so good with the kids today,” Noah tells him, and has him sip again. Then he kisses him, quick and light.  

They sit like that as long as the beer lasts. Noah alternates—sweet, sipping kisses; short swallows of beer. Jack leans into him, wanting more, until Noah throws the empty can aside and gives it to him, finally opens his mouth and lets Jack in, as deep and long as Jack wants to kiss him. He presses his palms into Jack’s cheeks, his thumbs into the hinges of his jaw, opens him up more. Jack leads the kiss but doesn’t go any farther, doesn’t move his hands. He’s trembling, when Noah pulls back.  

“What are you thinking about?” He asks.  

Jack’s breaths are quick and shallow. His cheeks are pink. His ears, under Noah’s fingers, are burning. “I’m thinking,” he says, and stumbles. Noah waits. “I’m thinking about your mouth.” 

Noah doesn’t ask where he’s thinking about it. Too many options. He says, “are you thinking about me sucking you off?” 

“Yes,” Jack says. 

“Are you thinking about me eating you out?” 

Jack shudders. “Yes,” he says.  

“Are you thinking about me leaving marks on your skin?” 

“Yes.” 

“Let’s go inside,” Noah says. He doesn’t push Jack from his lap. Waits for him to make the first move. “I’d like to do those things.” 

“Which?” Jack asks. Noah smiles at him. He can’t leave hickeys where other people will see, but he’s already thinking about the exact place he wants to bite first—the perfect swell of Jack’s ass, right where it meets his thigh. Right against the crease. Right where he’ll feel it.  

“All of them,” Noah says.  

… 

In July, Jack has interviews lined up. They make him anxious. Lying’s not in his nature, but truthfulness is not in his contract.  

The day before, Noah tells him to get himself a beer and then tells him, “come here.” 

Jack comes, over to where Noah’s sitting on their outdoor couch, presses himself up against Noah’s side.  

“Tell me about last season,” Noah says.  

Jack squirms. Noah puts his hand on the back of his neck, reassuring. Squeezes gently until he feels something give—maybe a knot in his shoulder, maybe just the way Jack finally surrenders, relaxes against him.  

“It was shitty,” Jack says. Noah stays quiet. Sometimes the best way to get to him is to simply wait him out. He almost always has something to say—it's just a matter of convincing him to say it.  

“It was really shitty,” Jack continues finally. “It was almost shittier because it felt like it wouldn’t be, for a while. Like things were going well. It was shitty in a way it never was before because I could feel the potential. I could feel like we should be better, like we were capable of it. But we just weren’t. That’s worse than knowing you’re bad, is not being able to be good. And I'm worried next year is going to be shitty, too. Like it’s going to be like this forever.” 

Noah squeezes his neck again, keeps his hand there. He doesn’t make promises that he can’t keep. He says, “that was good, Jack. I’m glad that you told me that.” 

Jack turns his face into Noah’s shoulder. He can’t tell anybody else, so it’s important that he tells Noah. That someone knows how he feels. Noah keeps his hand on Jack’s neck until dinner.  

… 

Noah goes to Calgary for a week. Jack doesn’t meet him at the airport when he’s back, but he meets him in their foyer. He steps into Noah’s arms and stays there, and Noah holds him, puts a hand on his neck, feels the way he breathes. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, even though Jack never says no. He likes being able to say yes.  

Noah orders them dinner. He gives Jack a few bites from his fork of what he ordered for himself, which is new but only in a gradual way. They watch TV, afterwards, Jack tucked under his arm.  

Noah asks him, “what are you thinking about?” 

Jack looks away. Noah lets him gather his courage to say, “I’m thinking about asking you to... I’m thinking about your hands.” 

Noah gives him a few seconds; he doesn’t say anything else. Noah asks, “would you like me to finger you?” It sounds crude out loud like that, in a way that Noah doesn’t think it would be. 

Jack breathes in, sharply. He says, “yes.” 

“Go upstairs,” Noah says, and turns off the lights before following him up, to Jack’s room. Their room.  

He’s still wearing his clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed. Noah stands over him, frames his face. Makes him look up, head tipped all the way back. “Have you done this before?” He asks.  

Jack hesitates. Noah puts his thumb on Jack’s lower lip, pulls down. Just until he can press the pad of his finger against Jack’s teeth, feel the warm wet of his mouth.  

“Yes,” Jack finally says, around Noah’s thumb.  

“Have you done this with someone else?” Noah asks. The real question—what he should have asked the first time. Jack answers direct questions, doesn’t often elaborate unless asked. Noah’s still learning.  

“No,” Jack says. “Just. Myself.” 

“Would you like to be on your stomach?”  

“No,” Jack says. He tries to look away; Noah holds his face. “On my back,” Jack says after a moment, without prompting.  

Noah leans down to kiss his forehead. Says, “good, thank you for telling me,” and then, “take your clothes off,” and lets him go. Jack does, letting them crumple in a heap. He puts his head on the pillow and waits.  

Noah strips off, too. There’s lube in the nightstand that he doesn’t reach for yet. He sits back on his heels in the space Jack makes between his thighs, unselfconscious in his nakedness. He knows Jack’s body like his own, reaches for one foot. Jack’s leg is thick, strong, his ankle incongruously slender. Noah kisses him there, on the knob of bone. Then up an inch, the cord of his achilles tendon. Up to the depression under his calf. Up again, over muscle.  

“Noah,” Jack says.  

“Shh,” Noah says, moves up again, presses his mouth there. “Let me.” 

Jack lets him. Noah works his mouth up over Jack’s leg—knee, thigh, the crease of his hip where the skin is thinnest. Noah mouths over a blue vein, pulls back. Jack’s cock is as big and thick as the rest of him, leaking at the tip. Noah doesn’t touch it. He picks a sensitive spot, high on the inside of his thigh, and bites. The skin doesn’t break, but Jack gasps, a high intake of breath. When Noah pulls back, the pink impression of teeth stay behind. Noah kisses him in the same place, keeping his mouth open and wet. 

Noah backtracks, the same path up his other leg. He’s sensitive behind his knee, ticklish halfway up his thigh. Setting teeth against his ankle makes him shiver. All things Noah learns before he drops Jack’s leg from his shoulder, sits back again.  

“You’re so pretty, Jack,” he says, and he means it—the pink flush of his chest, the wet spike of his lashes, tears clinging. He’s responsive. Vulnerable. Noah leans over him, hands and knees. He feels both predatory and protective. “I’m so lucky.” 

Jack blossoms under a kiss, mouth petal soft and opening pink. Noah kisses him for a long time.  

When he pulls back, he runs a hand down Jack’s belly, one long line, neck to groin. Jack twitches under the touch.  

“I’d like you to wait to come until I ask you,” Noah says. “Would you like that?” 

“Yes,” Jack says.  

“Good,” Noah tells him, and that’s when he reaches for the lube.  

Jack unfurls under his hands just as he does under Noah's mouth. It’s all easy and slow and warm. Noah feels awed, watching. Jack makes small noises, soft—breathy, short moans. He clings to the sheets and never reaches out to touch, happy enough to take.  

In a few days, once Noah’s thought about how he wants it to go, how to make it good enough for him, he’ll ask— _would you like me to fuck you?_ Jack might say no. He does, sometimes. But Noah thinks he’ll say yes.  

Right now, he doesn’t ask that. He waits, until Jack finally says his name, reedy and broken. Then he says, “Can you come for me, Jack?” 

He hasn’t touched Jack’s cock, yet. If Jack asks him, he will—Noah may ask him if he’d like that, in a moment. It’s not about denial. He’s so worked up already, though, hips twitching, and Noah wants to see if it will happen anyway. Noah works his fingers in, watching. Strokes his nipple, then reaches up and puts a hand on his throat, touch with no pressure. 

Jack says, “yes,” and then he does, hard and beautiful, body bowing, breathless.  

Noah works his hand out, slowly, other palm stroking at Jack’s hip. Jack’s still gasping for breath in wet, hitching gulps, overwhelmed. Noah murmurs at him, “Good, Jack. You were so good.” 

“Noah,” Jack says, and reaches for him. Noah goes, leans in and kisses him soft—on the mouth, over the tear tracks on his cheek, against the stubble on his jaw.  

“I’d like to come on you,” he says, finally. He’s so hard he can feel his pulse in his cock.  

“Yes,” Jack says. When Noah pulls back, Jack’s face is hesitant.  

Noah watches him. Gauging. “Tell me what you want,” he says finally, petrified of guessing—of choosing wrong. Of ruining this.  

“I want to touch you,” Jack says all at once. “I want to make you come.” 

Noah strokes his cheek, pads of fingers. “Yes,” he says. 

… 

Noah thinks about just saying it— _we need to talk about this season._  

Then he disregards it. He imagines the face Jack would pull, and what it would cover up. His discomfort at the open bigness of the request.  

Noah works him up to it on a long off day. He tells him to get his hair cut, and so he does, while Noah sits in a chair in the barbershop and watches. They have a fitting with their tailor. Noah helps him pick three new suits and some shirts and ties. Noah suggests they go swimming and makes him reapply his sunscreen halfway through the day.  

Noah orders them dinner, two dishes that they both like. He eats off Jack’s plate, slips him bites on Noah’s fork.  

Then they go to the deck, and Noah tucks Jack under his arm with a glass of wine in his free hand. He’s been thinking about it for weeks, and the clock is winding down. He’s been picking the perfect way to ask.  

“Jack,” he says, and Jack makes a low noise when he doesn’t continue. Listening.     

“Would you like to keep doing this during the season?” Is what Noah’s settled on. A yes or no that he can build on.  

For the first time all summer, Jack doesn’t respond immediately. When Noah looks at him, his face is tight and afraid. “Are we defining the relationship?” he asks.  

Noah hadn’t counted on the fact that even the word ‘this’ might be too big.  

“Yes,” he acknowledges. They’re both quiet. He tries to think about how to scale this back, make it manageable. “I’d like to talk about what you want from me. When we’re not living together.” 

The waves crash on the shore. Jack doesn’t move, but his body against Noah doesn’t have the languidness that Noah’s grown used to. 

“So I can make sure I give it to you,” Noah says, when the silence draws out. “So I can make sure you’re happy.” 

“That’s what I want,” Jack says, vehemently. “I want this, I want...” 

Noah waits. Anything he said would sound patronizing. Any question he asked. 

“I want things to be just like this,” Jack says finally. “But we’re not—they can’t be.” 

“Not exactly,” Noah acknowledges. “But they could be... we could do parts of it.” 

“I could—” Jack says, and cuts himself off. “I might have sex with other people.” 

Noah expected this. “Yes,” he says. “That’s fine. I might, too.” 

“Okay,” Jack says. “But I don’t want to... do it like we do it.” 

“Me neither.” 

“And I don’t want to listen to anybody else. The same way. That’s just... for you.” 

“Yes,” Noah says again. He presses his thumb into Jack’s neck. It’s so gratifying, the way he sags into Noah’s hold. Even now. “For me, as well.” 

“Okay,” Jack says, “then that’s what I want.” 

“I’d like to call you,” Noah tells him, slipping back into it. Now that the hard part is in their rearview and they can be them again. He feels more in control. “More than we did before. Would you like that?” 

Jack presses into him, gratefully. “Yes,” he says. 

“I’d like you to text me, when you feel like you need me,” Noah says. “Whatever it is. Whatever time. Would you do that?” 

“Yes,” Jack says.  

“And we can Facetime,” Noah says, “I’d like to see you, sometimes. Would that be alright?” 

“Yes,” Jack says. 

“And when we play each other—” 

“Yes,” Jack says, before Noah finishes, and then adds unprompted, “I want to see you. Whenever we can.” 

Noah’s learning, pushing, trying. He imagines Jack texting him, asking his advice on what sushi to order. What tie to wear. Telling him he’s tired, just so Noah can say— _go to bed._ Watching him jerk off over Facetime so Noah can tell him how good he is.  

Except for that last one—things weren’t so different last season. Jack’s been one step ahead of him this whole time.  

“Good,” Noah tells him. Jack shivers again, not from the night air. Noah puts his wine glass to Jack’s lips, lets him sip. It stains his mouth red. Noah asks him, “can I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” Jack says, and Noah does, the way Jack likes it. Deep and wet and long, until when Noah pulls back, Jack just watches him, easy, waiting for his next move.  

“Good, Jack,” Noah repeats, thumbing at his bottom lip. They have a week, and then a season, and then. More. “You’re so good for me.” 

... 

**Author's Note:**

> *shrug emoji*
> 
> Here I am, back on my bullshit, wildly projecting my feelings onto an innocent NHL player.
> 
> I like... really struggled to tag this one, so let me know if I missed anything big. This is probably a mature fic in a sexy trench coat, but better safe than sorry. 
> 
> Basically: Jack likes Noah to tell him what to do. It starts platonic, and then becomes... not that. They don't talk about it bc they're dumb boys--they occasionally talk at and around it--but they both like it. The author does not recommend this behavior in real life.
> 
> This is my first time with this pairing, so I hope it worked as well for you as it did for me :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Tell me how good it feels (to be needed)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21706969) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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